


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by bonecocoon



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, Post canon, christmas dinner as cunnilingus, fluff with a side of angst and fisting, god's victory and death is two girls fucking on the kitchen floor, slight handwaving bc i am not bone mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonecocoon/pseuds/bonecocoon
Summary: All Gideon Nav wants (to eat) for Christmas is the Reverend Daughter.“If the whole point of Christmas is to celebrate the strangely conceived and only child of God.”Harrow groaned, having already followed Gideon’s line of thought to its sacrilegious and not entirely incorrect conclusion. Her cavalier’s yellow eyes were the brightest thing in the soft light of their small kitchen as she continued, “then Christmas is actually a celebration of me! I’m reclaiming Christmas as Gideonmas starting now.”
Relationships: Gideon Nav & Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Locked Tomb Holiday Smut Festival 2020





	All I Want For Christmas Is You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in 15 years! Love how TLT dragged so many people back into fandom including me. TY to Elldritch and ChillyWeirdoInACoffin for looking over drafts and everyone who cheered me on. Merry Gideonmas from the sepulchral home of these two idiots to yours.

What was the point of being 200 sons and daughters of her house if she couldn’t get the pilot light on? Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus absolutely and fundamentally could not turn their oven on. 

It was the third morning of the third day since she’d assured her cavalier that of course she knew exactly how to preheat an oven or use a meat thermometer. Her audacity might kill just them both and it wouldn’t even be their first time. Harrow was beginning to seriously question why she’d claimed the role of kitchen top for Christmas dinner. 

Perhaps it had been Gideon’s achingly earnest vulnerability in telling Harrow it would mean a lot to her if they could spend Christmas Eve together, just the two of them. Harrow, as profusely secular as one might imagine after her cavalier led an army to kill God, went noticeably still. 

Perhaps it was the way Gideon’s eyes had glittered despite Palamedes and Camilla’s hushed and urgent tones as they explained the antediluvian traditions of the Blood of Eden planet they had sequestered themselves in such as ‘Christmas’ and ‘New Year’s.’ 

Perhaps it was that this abysmal, dusty terror of a planet had felt more like home than Harrow would ever feel comfortable saying aloud. Her cavalier heard it echo throughout their small one-bedroom apartment regardless. 

Perhaps it was Gideon’s nervous hands as she played with the ends of her shirt sleeves, dappled in light and staunchly unable to meet her necromancer’s eyes as she said, “I think it would help, you know? To make our own traditions.” 

At that, Harrow began compiling a dizzying amount of notes in her own private cypher to account for the observable deficits in her culinary skill as well as any hints on what one might eat for a Christmas dinner.

Gideon’s eyebrow quirked the first time Harrow had volunteered to sous chef. Ordinarily the only place she had known Harrowhark Nonagesimus to bottom was their bedroom and only on increasingly rare occasions.

Not wanting to appear overly enthusiastic and risk Harrow changing her mind, Gideon had nodded once curtly in acceptance. The crepuscular rays outside their kitchen window illuminated her red hair as she moved expertly around the kitchen. The only sign of her barely contained mirth was an almost imperceptible humming as her lips moved to some unknown song.

Harrow had taken to asking Gideon subtle yet leading questions about favorite recipes, peppered with small compliments that filled her cavalier with too much dopamine for critical thinking like “Griddle, you’re something else with that knife.” 

Despite the soft voice Gideon used to offer Harrow corrections on her form, Harrow couldn’t help but bristle at any reminder of real or perceived inadequacies. Gideon had always had a knack for making the arduous appear effortless and besides Gideon loved to cook. She had always known how to make something out of nothing and it translated easily to her prowess in the kitchen. 

That was how Harrow found herself shrouded in a thin film of flour, leaning against their temperamental oven and making an absolute mess of their small kitchen. Her back slid down the still cold oven door as she surveyed the wreckage of her attempt at showing Gideon the at times overwhelming affection she felt for the other girl. 

Harrow startled as the door clicked open. Gideon smirked in the doorway, arms full of takeout from their favorite Chinese spot, two bottles of Gideon’s favorite wine, and a bouquet teaming with black lilies, cerulean roses and baby’s breath. 

Harrow winced as she remembered Gideon noticing her looking at those same flowers at a shop in town and the way she’d teased her necromancer that the color palette suited her. Lips turned up in a snide smile, she’d said only that they couldn’t allow such a frivolous purchase and needed nothing less than to draw undue attention to themselves on this literally Godforsaken planet. Her heart had skipped a beat when Gideon’s smile faltered at her clipped words.

It was a smile not entirely dissimilar from the way her cavalier smiled now. Gideon she took in Harrowhark sitting on the floor, every countertop crowded with abandoned mixing bowls and dishes. She set down the flowers and wine, then closed the door behind her, not unkindly, with her foot.

Gideon tilted her head slightly, sat the rest of her bags down and said, “Harrowhark, you know I don’t care about Christmas, right? You know I only care about you?” 

Gideon sat on the floor next to her necromancer and let the steam from a white takeout box filled with crab rangoon curl up in waves. She ripped the brown takeout bag in half, smoothed it onto the floor, and continued opening boxes of Chinese food. Harrow’s gaze focused solely on her cavalier’s lips as she blew on the curved piece of fried phyllo, dipped it into a small container of neon pink sauce and offered it to Harrow. “Your favorite.”

Harrow, who had returned to studiously examining each individual cuticle, soundlessly began to cry. Gideon’s brow furrowed. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” 

Harrow looked up at her cavalier, took a deep breath and intoned cooly, “I’m wrong. You asked such a small thing of me and I failed. You have always been kinder than I deserved. I wanted to show you the same.” 

Gideon’s thumb came away murky and wet from the tears and mascara crawling down Harrow’s cheeks. Harrowhark laughed derisively, “Should’ve worn waterproof.” 

Gideon took her hands gently from her necromancer’s face and said, “Nothing is ruined, Harrow. All I asked for was to spend time together. The concept itself is absurd, obviously, but all this ridiculous Blood of Eden ‘Sacred Holiday’ shit meant to me was free time to spend with you. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, just you and me for just this one day. Gideon-and-Harrowhark, Harrowhark-and-Gideon, at last.”

Harrow opened her mouth to speak, but stopped short to let Gideon finish. “We saved Dominicus, you know? And all we got to show for it was the rest of the stupid universe to save. That’s all fine and good, we’re up for it, we bring hell. It’s just that everyone, whether we’re in the Nine Houses or this hot and stupid BoE planet, acts like everything is always so damn urgent and important. And it is, but, Harrow, so are we, so is our relationship.” 

Harrow’s face pinched as she realized with a start that when she’d undertaken this task with the same grave severity she regarded most things, she had accidentally missed her cavalier’s point about crafting new traditions altogether. 

Gideon interrupted Harrow’s palpable impending self-flagellation with a sheepish smile. “Besides, if the whole point of Christmas is to celebrate the strangely conceived and only child of ‘God.’” 

Harrow groaned, having already followed Gideon’s line of thought to its ridiculous and not entirely incorrect conclusion. Her cavalier’s yellow eyes were the brightest thing in the dim light of their kitchen as she continued, “then Christmas is actually a celebration of me! I’m reclaiming Christmas as Gideonmas starting now.” 

Harrow sighed heavily, hiding a smile behind her palm. 

“Okay, but Gideon, how could we kill God, if I can’t make you a Christmas dinner? That doesn’t seem incongruous to you?” she said with something resembling a laugh.

“Okay but,” teased Gideon, “more importantly, we know you can turn me on.” Harrow groaned again.

“Seriously, so cooking isn’t your most refined skill, Reverend Daughter, who cares?” She ran a hand through her hair and said, “You have me - hot, gorgeous - to cook for you every night. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll keep the homefires burning.”

Whatever Harrow mumbled under her breath her cavalier didn’t quite catch. 

“Nonagesimus, all I want for Christmas is you,” she said, feigning shyness with a crooked smile. She dipped a finger dramatically into one of the sauces and hollowed out her cheeks as she sucked the sauve off. Locking eyes with her necromancer, she pulled her finger out slow only to roll her tongue over the tip of her finger. 

“And I will tell you for free that all I want to eat for Christmas is you,” she said, her smile wicked now. 

Harrow barked out a surprised laugh at her cavalier’s persistence in using levity as her primary coping skill. 

Gideon kissed her softly on the forehead and Harrow let out a noise that had long since stopped embarrassing them both. 

Harrow’s fingers curled around the other girl’s collar, traced the warm skin there, and twirled the red baby hairs at the nape of her neck. She laid soft, teasing kisses where she could easily reach. The way she dragged her black nails lightly down the side of her neck brought small sounds from her cavalier. She paused, using no weight or pressure at all, to linger around Gideon’s throat until she heard her beloved’s breath hitch. 

Once upon a time, they had both thought it would always only amount to this. That they would die back on the Ninth with their hands wrapped around each others’ throats. 

Instead, Harrow let her hand fall to her side and said simply, “Nav?” Gideon straightened and closed her slack mouth with a start. 

“Yes, bone empress?” Gideon couldn’t help but crack jokes. It didn’t stop Harrow from kicking her feet together softly and smiling when Gideon moaned. They’d discovered this useful little outlet that along with couples therapy had helped them deconstruct the twenty years of... whatever they’d been to each other before now. 

It had all started when Harrowhark had found one of Gideon’s favorite pieces of literature, Naughty Nuns of the Ninth, and narrated each and every single one of the dog-eared pages. Gideon could have laughed herself to sleep when Harrow blushed profusely and refused to stop reading. The joke was ultimately on her cavalier when the Reverend Daughter appeared in a harrowing and obscene parody of her former full Ninth regalia. 

Now the covers of Frontline Titties of the Fifth and Naughty Nuns of the Ninth hang framed on Harrow’s side of the bed, reminding her cavalier that she is allowed to want and that even the Reverend Daughter is allowed to both give and receive.

It had shocked the two of them, at first, how much of a mirror deliberately playing with pain and power could be, exactly how much it had taught them both and quickly. 

Harrow had paled and stopped their scene abruptly the first time her cavalier had ever pleaded, “tell me I’m yours.” 

Her face had returned easily to the old familiar and cruel angles. Her body and words held only sharp edges. Harrow’s only tell was a fine trembling and the white of her knuckles. Gideon had read the other girl, younger than her, as swiftly as ever. Gideon brushed a piece of hair behind her necromancer’s ear and said, “I should have asked first. I’m sorry, Harrow.”

Harrowhark had snapped back to reality at that, but still couldn’t look at her cavalier. Instead, she focused on her hands as she slowly took off and slipped back on her gloves. “You have the temerity to tell me you’re sorry?”

This argument was familiar too. Well worn and washed out, overflowing with their shared history. 

Harrowhark shook her head and recalled herself back in the present. “Nav, did you want to crack jokes or did you want something more?”

“Nonagesimus,” Gideon whispered near her necromancer’s mouth. “All I want - all I’ve ever wanted - was your full attention.”

“Nav,” said Harrowhark, placing a finger on her cavalier’s bottom lip. “Just what exactly did you imagine we would spend time alone together doing?”

Her cavalier sank immediately and reverently down to her knees. She slid her hands into Harrow’s black hoodie, as close to her old uniform of sacramental robes as the Reverend Daughter ever dressed now, and lifted the soft fabric to reveal bare skin. She kissed above the line of her necromancer’s leggings, keeping eye contact while she looped her fingers into the band and slid the fabric down to her ankles. By the time Harrowhark stepped out of the soft restriction, Gideon was already kissing along the inside of her thighs. 

“Nav,” she breathed out. She slid her hands into Gideon’s hair, destroying and remaking the styling of her cavalier’s cropped hair as surely as she was destroyed and remade with every press of Gideon’s lips. 

On any given day, Gideon loved to tease her necromancer. Today, she felt differently. 

“So eager,” Harrow said somewhat hypocritically, knees buckling at the feel of her cavalier’s tongue finally pressing flat against her. 

“Will that be all, penumbral lady?” asked Gideon, licking her lips languorously after the vibration of her own moaning had taken her necromancer’s legs telltale shaking over the edge. 

“Absolutely not,” said Harrowhark. “Lay down, Nav.” 

Harrow may no longer worship The Body, but she certainly worshipped the body before her. She tithed with every finger she slipped into Gideon and lit a prayer candle with every stroke. 

“Gideon the Ninth, first flower of my house,” Harrow said as her pace quickened. “You have always had my full attention.”

Gideon wasn’t entirely sure if her eyes rolled up from her necromancer’s words alone or the rhythm her fingers had taken up. Gideon’s smile grew wide, toothy, breathtaking. Whenever Harrow curled her fingers like that Gideon couldn’t reasonably be expected to articulate a single syllable let alone intelligible words or phrases. Her eyes betrayed her and said everything her parted mouth couldn’t manage.

Gideon let herself lose time in her pleasure and her necromancer was there with soft praise for her cavalier and grounding touches. Gideon had once called herself a good girl and Harrow an evil nun. She’d been more right and more wrong than she could’ve ever known at the time. 

With Harrow’s hand inside her, Gideon always felt like she belonged somewhere, to this time, to this place, to her favorite person. Safety and belonging were also things they’d fought to create together. Long nights in salted pools, counseling, and possibility models of healthy relationships all contributed, of course, but so did the feel of Harrow’s knuckles and fist inside of her cavalier.

Harrow was surprised to realize she couldn’t so much as remember what it had even felt like when she’d forbidden herself from feeling this love full out. This inconceivable and simultaneously inevitable intimacy. 

After, Gideon bragged to Harrow while curled up in their bed about the menu she would curate and execute for next year’s Christmas dinner. She explained extensively the value inherent in deep frying a turkey as a holiday staple, indulging in her necromancer smiling at her. 

“Hmm,” Harrowhark hummed appreciatively and ran her fingers through her cavalier’s hair, stopping every so often to pull lightly. 

She looked down at Gideon and said with piercing sincerity, “Next year, I want to watch you fry.”

Gideon laughed. “Maybe, Nonagesimus, maybe. Merry Christmas, Harrowhark.”

Harrow laughed then too. “Merry Gideonmas, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to the Holiday Smut Fest and everyone who submitted prompts. Hope this ridiculous offering makes you smile if you contributed any of the three prompts I combined. If you think any of the above puns is a love letter from me to you, you are almost certainly correct.


End file.
